Lost and Found: Adventures in the Deep Roads
by WellspringCD
Summary: In the deepest darkness under the Stone, a scavenger named Latitia Brosca only cares about keeping family alive and fed for one more day, until she meets a desperate stranger in dire need of the help only a cave rat can give. NEW STORY ADDED.
1. The Exile, Part 1

A growl echoed through the cavern as the hurlock alpha warned a packmate to keep well away from his dinner, a particularly large and succulent crab. The genlock cowered and scurried away from the alpha to join the others in their small band, shuffling and wading in the shallows of the river where it widened out enough for the pale crabs to flourish in the gentler current. One uttered a grunt of excitement when it found a rope and began hauling on it, dragging a wire cage from the deeper waters. Pincers gripped the wires and beady eyes peered out at the pack of genlocks as they tore the trap open to get at the crabs inside.

Nearby, lurking in a crack in the wall a few feet off the ground, Latitia Brosca mouthed a silent oath of frustration. She'd come to Ortan Thaig to retrieve her trap and its contents herself, and now not only would she be going home empty-handed, she was going to have to make a new trap, too, because these sodding darkspawn didn't even try to open the lid.

She settled back against the rough stone to wait for the darkspawn to leave so she could salvage the ruined cage. She tried to ignore the clamminess of her coveralls, though they stuck to her skin in the river's humidity. The coveralls were necessary - at least, they were if she didn't want to smear deepstalker droppings directly on her body. She'd gotten used to the stink, and now found it oddly comforting; it covered her own scent, and meant no darkspawn would smell her as prey. But she still didn't want to rub the stuff on her skin, so she wore the coveralls.

Her face and hands were blackened with coal, and she kept her lids half-closed to prevent her eyes from gleaming in the darkness. If she stayed quiet, she was as safe as she was in her own home.

Safer, really. Her home was in Dust Town.

She dozed a bit, waiting, listening to the slurping and growling as the darkspawn squabbled over the crabs. Then a new sound came to her sensitive ears: Someone with armored boots was walking down the southern tunnel. She drew in her breath in surprise and dread. Dwarva! Here, of all places! And only one - did they _want_ to die?

The darkspawn heard it, too, and perked up their scabby ears, notched and laced from bite marks where they'd fought amongst themselves for dominance. There would be no infighting now, though. Now, the pack was hunting, and they were a single unit, one mind and one goal.

The alpha grunted a few orders, communicating as much with gesture and body language as with the half-formed sounds that came with difficulty from the distorted mouth. His troops drew their motley assortment of weaponry, some holding swords, others axes, daggers, hammers. Then they moved off in the direction of the footsteps, trotting almost as silently as she did. _Almost, but not quite_, she though with a hint of pride. She squashed that feeling, bringing her mind back to the question of what to do now.

If she helped the stupid, suicidal dwarf, she stood a good chance of being killed herself. But if she stayed hidden, the stranger would die for certain.

_Serves them right, coming out here alone._

The stranger had seen the darkspawn and she - for it was a woman's voice - roared the Aeducan battlecry, followed by the distinctive, silken sound of a sword leaving its sheath.

_How stupid can a person get?_ _Yelling in the Deep Roads! By Astyth's armored ass, she's going to attract every predator in a two-mile radius. _

But despite her attempt to convince herself to stay aloof, Latitia's hands crept to her dagggers when the crash of a shield smashing a genlock to the ground echoed through the cavern. A wet crunch and the stranger let out a gasp of pain, and Latitia was on her feet, running silently in padded boots towards the knot of darkspawn clustered around the dwarven woman.

The stranger fought like an enraged bronto, trapped though she was, and Latitia's daggers had cut two genlock's throats and hamstrung a third before the pack could react to the new threat. The alpha, keeping his distance and letting his minions do his dirty work, barked a guttural command and two of the genlocks wheeled to face this odd-smelling apparition even as she stabbed the the hamstrung genlock in the face when he fell backward.

"Shut up," Latitia hissed as the warrior woman drew in her breath to hurl threats at her enemies. She danced back, bringing two genlocks and the hurlock alpha with her, away from the wounded stranger and the light from the torch she'd dropped. Then she turned and ran, making no effort to be quiet.

"What? Where are you -" called the stranger.

"Stay!" Latitia snapped. Her opponents broke into a shambling run to pursue, giving in to the irresistible lure of fleeing prey. She led them around and out through the north tunnel, relying on stone sense to keep her on course and her own memory that no spiders or deepstalkers currently called this tunnel their home. The darkspawn followed her into the absolute blackness and for a few seconds, they followed the sound of her footsteps, and then even that stopped. They scented the air and smelled deepstalker droppings, but everything smelled a little bit like them in this part of the Roads. One growled in pain when he ran into a wall in the dark.

Another let out an odd gurgle, followed by a splash and a thump, and the intoxicating smell of blood and death.

The alpha tried to lead his last packmate back out of this death trap, but the genlock, mad with fury and frustration and his nose filled with the scent of meat, roared and swung wildly with his axe, striking sparks off the stone walls. The flicker of light from the spark reflected on a dagger blade for an instant before the genlock's eyes widened and glazed over in death, and he toppled slowly forward.

The alpha fled. Perhaps he could yet salvage some of the genlocks he'd left behind. Behind him, Latitia cursed and ran after him. She should have killed him first, she knew, but... he was too tall to reach his throat or face, and she was afraid, too afraid to try to match him in battle alone. And he was fast and all she could do was follow, she couldn't catch up to him before he reached the warrior she'd left behind.

The alpha ducked around a corner, and tried to ambush her when she followed. She reacted instinctively, tucking and hitting the ground with her shoulder, rolling and jumping back to her feet in one practiced motion before she skidded and turned to face him, now between him and the stranger... and horribly exposed. She clenched her hands on the hilts of her daggers and balanced on her toes, trying to control her terror at facing off with a hurlock alpha. But sudden silence fell behind her, and the alpha looked over her head and snarled with anger at the loss of his last packmate. He spat fury at her, turned, and fled back the way his pack had come, back to the Dead Trenches.

Latitia spun and ran to the stranger, who leaned heavily on her shield, the point of her bloodied sword resting on the stone as though she lacked the strength to raise it. Genlock corpses scattered the floor around her. Frowning, Latitia took in the battered and mismatched armor, the ill-fitting helmet, the breastplate with a gaping hole in the chest where its previous owner had suffered a killing blow. What Deep Roads scavenger fought like the sword-caste and shouted the Aeducan battlecry?

"May I know to whom I owe my life?" the stranger asked, rough with fatigue and pain. She reached up and pushed her visor back, revealing a pretty face, smooth and unscarred, with large hazel eyes beneath a stern brow and braided auburn hair. She looked some years older than Latitia, but still in her prime of youth and beauty, curvaceous and well-muscled in sharp contrast to Latitia's own bony frame.

"I'm Latitia," replied the younger woman. "Are you bleeding?"

"Latitia who?"

"Brosca. Are you bleeding? Please, it's important."

"I don't know any House Brosca." The stranger frowned, leaned forward to get a better look.

Latitia ducked her head automatically, hiding the brand that marked her as casteless even though her skin was solid black from the coal dust. "That doesn't matter right now. Are you - oh. You are. Sod."

Fresh blood dripped steadily down the strange warrior's leg, pooling slowly on the gory pavement. She grinned unexpectedly. "Yes. I am. What of it?"

"We have to stop it before we can go. Wait here." Latitia started to jog back to her pack and its supply of bandages, but the stranger called after her.

"Don't walk away from me!"

Latitia turned and stared at her, incredulous. "Huh?"

"Do you know who I -" she began imperiously, then faltered. Her voice broke and her shoulders slumped. Latitia would have asked what was wrong, but they had other, more pressing concerns at the moment. She fetched the pack and returned to the warrior, who had sunk down to the ground, looking miserable.

"Where's the wound?" she asked gently. The bigger woman gestured towards her side, and sat silently while Latitia unbuckled the decrepit armor and pulled it off. She hissed through her teeth at the wound beneath, gazing in dismay at the torn flesh and exposed ribs for a moment before going back to her bag for water and washcloths. She cleaned the wound brusquely, doing her best to keep the stinking darkspawn blood away from it, before threading her needle and warning her patient to brace herself.

The stranger ignored her completely, staring stoically across the ruined thaig, her clenched fists the only indication that she felt the wound. Latitia did her best to close the skin and muscle, making some effort to match the flesh together so it would heal properly, but she was no doctor and she felt cold with guilt at the mistakes she must be making. If they didn't make it back to Orzammar soon, very soon, this woman would likely die. She'd be lucky to regain the full mobility of her torso even with the aid of the best of Orzammar's surgeons.

Gritting her teeth, she made herself accept that this was the best she could do, and cut the thread. As she tightened the bandage, pulling a short gasp of pain from the stranger as she jerked the last knot as tight as she could, she heard the tiny shuffling and scratching sounds approaching from the southern tunnel. Deepstalkers. Not normally her greatest fear, but with a bleeding and clueless stranger to care for...

"Can you stand?" she asked her patient, whose battle-ruddy cheeks had gone gray with pain. The woman glared at her and refused her offer of a hand up, forcing herself to her feet with one hand braced on the tunnel wall.

"Follow me," Latitia told her quietly, and started off towards the river. "We have to wash the blood off your boots."

"You really don't - you don't know me, do you?" the warrior asked after a momentary pause. She began to follow, her metal boots scraping roughly on the stone floor. Latitia winced at the noise and vibration.

"I'm sorry, I don't," she whispered, hoping to get the woman to be quieter by her example.

"My name is Vesta," the warrior told her in a stage whisper. Latitia suppressed a grin at the failed attempt to be quiet. She supposed Vesta must be used to giving commands, to speaking in a voice meant to be heard, and silence did not come naturally to her.

"Vesta who?" she asked instead.

"Just Vesta."

She instantly regretted having asked. She wouldn't, normally, not out here in the Roads where nobody ever went alone unless they had no house, no caste, no money and no soldiers to accompany them. Asking a duster's family name would only remind them of that. But... Vesta was clearly no duster. Never mind the fact that, a woman so strikingly healthy and attractive and battle-trained, Latitia would have known her if she lived in Dust Town. _Everyone_ would have known her.

They arrived at the river and waded through the shallows until the water ran clear from both their boots. Then Latitia started to lead her new companion to the west tunnel, hoping to cut through the narrow darkspawn hole and go around the pack of deepstalkers, when she realized Vesta wasn't following her. She stopped and looked over her shoulder to see her leaning on her shield, breathing long, deep breaths through her teeth.

"Sod," she muttered, trotting back to the wounded woman's side. "Lean on me if you can. We'll hide and you can take a break. All right?"

Vesta nodded, and the two of them made their way to one of the ruined buildings. Latitia half-dragged her up the crumbling stairs and out onto the roof, then onto a second level dug into the wall, where the ancient home's owner had dug his master bedroom into the living Stone. She chased a pack of spiny rats out of the cave and did her best to brush their filthy nest aside so Vesta wouldn't be lying on rat droppings. Vesta knelt, then carefully lowered herself to the floor, wincing as she arranged herself of her uninjured side.

Latitia crouched at the top of the stairs with daggers in hand and waited, going over the situation in her head. Deepstalkers probably wouldn't come up here. Probably. They didn't normally climb so high, and the nest of rats confirmed her theory. Spiders would, but they were far from the nearest spiderwebs and normally they didn't scuttle around hunting, preferring to set their traps instead.

But Vesta was still bleeding, and the scent would bring darkspawn from an astonishing distance, given enough time for the air to circulate. Where did the ventilators blow again? Through the... Through the north tunnel? She licked her fingers and tested the air, but found it still and dead inside the old building. Good. They had some time.

"How did you know this was here?" Vesta mumbled from behind her.

"Please try to whisper as quietly as you can," Latitia breathed back. "And what do you mean, how did I know? Didn't you?"

"How should I?" Vesta whispered with a touch of anger. "I'm no cave rat. I've never been to this thaig before."

"No, I mean - you can't feel it?"

"Feel what?"

"Never mind." No sense making the stranger feel stupid. Latitia knew that not everyone felt the same about the Stone, and counted herself lucky that her own stone sense manifested as something useful. When she was younger, and still wondered about her pa, she'd imagined that perhaps he'd been a miner, and gifted her his tunnel vision. She had no idea if Rica had any stone sense at all, because her big sister had always been too busy keeping them alive and fed to bother trying to find out.

"What... What do we do now?" Vesta sounded beaten and nearly exhausted, and no longer had to work to keep her voice down. Latitia looked over her shoulder at the woman and frowned at her pale face beaded with sweat, and the stink of fear and blood so strong, even she could smell it.

This wasn't working. Her mind raced as she tried to work out their options. If they stayed, something would find them, possibly very soon, and she wasn't at all sure that rest would help Vesta when every minute that passed delayed her proper medical care. The most direct tunnel to Orzammar was now full of blood and gore, and thus too dangerous. The south tunnel had spiders in it. The southwest tunnel led to the Dead Trenches and had too many darkspawn patrols. The north tunnel... As far as she knew, nothing lived there, but that was because the lava had melted through its confinement and rendered the middle portion unbearably hot.

"We have to go soon. Do you think you can run?" she asked, though she thought she knew the answer.

"I can run," Vesta muttered, to her surprise. "But probably not very far."

"Can you climb?"

"Climb?" She sounded blank. That meant "no." Damn... So much for the south tunnel.

"We're going to have to try the north tunnel," Latitia told her quietly. "It's hot. Really, really hot, but everything else is too dangerous."

"North? Why?"

"To get you to Orzammar, of course."

Vesta was silent for a long moment, and Latitia ventured a glance her way, in time to see her swipe angrily at her eyes and stifle a sob. "What -" she started to ask, surprised, but Vesta cut her off.

"I can't go to Orzammar. I'm in exile."

Ah. That explained a lot... and left them with very few available courses of action that did not end in a painful death. None, actually, that she could see. Then she suddenly froze in icy dread. What had Vesta done? Was she dangerous?

"I didn't do anything," Vesta said, her words coming stronger with her conviction, as though she'd heard the smaller woman's thoughts. "My brother framed me in a bid for power."

Latitia spat off the edge of the balcony.

"I agree." Vesta grinned suddenly, her eyes dark and ironic. "But I imagine you've a similar story, my new friend and savior."

"Mm... Not really. I'm just scrounging food and stuff I can sell. I like to pretend I'm a treasure hunter. And it gets me out from under the Carta's thumb for a little while." Latitia stood and started to pick her way down the tumbled stairs. "I'll be back in a bit. Try to be absolutely silent until I come back, okay?"

"Yes, ma'am," Vesta said, and Latitia heard the same note of deepest irony and wondered at it.

Vesta watched the other woman, little more than a thin shadow in the unlit cavern, until she disappeared through the lower doorway. Then she settled back against the cold floor of the carved room the girl had somehow found, trying to keep her mind away from the boiling pain in her side and the deeper ache in her soul. But it was no use. Her best friend, her little brother, always there to laugh at her jokes and take her side against Trian and Harrowmont and anyone else who took offense at their pranks and constant little games... He'd betrayed her and thrown her to the darkspawn.

How long had he been planning this? How much of his laughter and love had been a lie?

She gritted her teeth and forced her mind away from the pit of despair. She would not give him that ultimate victory. She would not die here, in these rotting caverns full of darkspawn spume, like some lost duster. She was a Princess of Orzammar and by all the ancestors, she would make the whole world tremble with the force of her wrath.

* * *

_Note: This is indeed the same Latitia Brosca as stars in my other story "The Great Escape." This short story takes place a few weeks before the other begins._

_Vesta's adventures with Latitia will continue soon, though I recommend using Story Alert to keep track of it since I'm not sure what my schedule will be for this story. If people are interested in these prequel-type short stories exploring life as a Duster in the Roads, I have two more of them rattling around in my head and would be delighted to share them :) Thank you so much for reading!_


	2. The Exile, Part 2

_Thank you for your enthusiastic response to the first chapter! I shall strive to provide for you. Special thanks to mille libri for taking time out of her vacation to correct some really embarrassing mistakes._

* * *

A horrible stench dragged Vesta out of sleep, and she blinked around at the tiny room in momentary confusion. Thick tendrils of smoke curled up the outside of the building; she could see its gray fingers through the broken windows. For a moment, she wondered if she should try to escape, if the fire were some sort of trap, and started to sit up, but stiffness had settled into her muscles and she collapsed again with a hiss of pain. Then she saw Latitia's eyes gleaming in her soot-blackened face.

"I bought us some time," she said, grinning. "You'll get used to the smell."

"I didn't mean to sleep." Vesta growled in pain as she tried again to lever herself upright. "I have someplace to go. Thank you for your help, Brosca. I owe you my life, and I won't forget that, for whatever it's worth."

"Where are you going?" Latitia mumbled curiously around a mouthful of hardtack. She broke the biscuit in half and handed some to Vesta, who shook her head, feeling nauseous and lightheaded.

"Gorim says," she began, but her voice broke. Damn it, she was stronger than this. It must be the blood loss, she was a damned Aeducan no matter what the Shaper said, she would _not _cry over a man like some lovesick teenager. She would _not_.

Latitia crept closer on eerily silent feet and crouched beside her, rubbing a hand briskly across her shoulder. Vesta knew the gesture was meant as kindness, and if the girl had been a little more gentle, she'd have rejected it as too pitying. Instead, she sat like a stalagmite and let the other woman give her what comfort she could as she gathered calmness around herself like a cloak before speaking again.

"Anyway. My Second said the Gray Warden contingent is still here, and their leader might be willing to take me with him," she explained, her voice steady again.

"Gray Wardens?" Latitia sounded wary and dropped her hand from Vesta's back. "Really? Is that safe?"

Vesta stared at her for a moment in confusion, her mind feeling sluggish and foggy, before eventually figuring out what she meant. "They're not here for their Calling. They're doing some research, looking for evidence of Blight."

"Oh. All right, then. Where do we go?"

_We_, the girl had said. What did she hope to gain from this? Vesta was increasingly certain that her aide was casteless, or she wouldn't be here at all. And she'd always known that the casteless cared only about personal gain, not honor; how could they? Casteless have no honor to protect, denied it by the mistake of their birth.

"What do you want?" Vesta asked finally, too tired to dance around the issue.

Latitia scowled and looked away. "You want to go alone? Fine then. Sod off, and hope you die of your wounds before the darkspawn eat you alive."

"I... meant no offense," Vesta said slowly. "But I cannot give you any sort of payment or recompense. I have nothing, I'm a penniless exile."

"Well," the girl laughed unexpectedly, a quiet, breathy sound that was silenced quickly before it could carry, "I wouldn't have objected to a little gold, but I'm not about to carve payment out of your flesh, ample as it may be." She playfully pinched one of Vesta's generous hips, and laughed again.

Vesta considered taking offense at the too-familiar gesture, but found she lacked the energy. "All right. If you are... certain you wish to accompany me. They were last seen outside Aeducan Thaig."

"Accompany you? Lady, I'll be lucky if I'm not carrying you." Latitia stood up and held out a hand. Vesta took it, and barely heaved herself to her feet, breathless with pain.

_Aeducan Thaig, Aeducan Thaig... Where does Ortan River go?_ Latitia tried to visualize her map as she half-carried Vesta down the crumbled stairs, absently kicking a cracked dwarven skull out of her way as she went. But the River would be too cold for Vesta, even if she could swim. She settled Vesta on a rock to catch her breath and unfolded her map, holding her precious chunk of glowing blue fungus over it to read by.

"Where did you get _tepish cerule_?" Vesta ask in surprise, and Latitia grinned to herself.

"Found some still alive in an abandoned mining outpost."

"You shouldn't handle it like that."

"Why, because one of my caste is unworthy?"

Vesta frowned, but the voice wasn't nearly as bitter as the words, so she answered the question. "No, because it's poisonous. It eats lyrium, that's why it glows, so there's bound to be a lyrium nugget inside it and you don't want to get that in your mouth or in a cut on your body."

"Really?" Latitia gave the _tepish_ an accusing look, as though it had offended her. "Thanks for the warning, I'll put on my gloves."

"Don't tell anyone I told you," Vesta said dryly. "It's a secret. So... Where are we going?"

"Well, we gotta go northwest, right? There's the north tunnel, but it's full of lava. Then there's Ortan River, there's runes on the docks that say you can get a barge through it. That would be faster but the water is very, _very_ cold. Like, freeze-your-nipples-off cold."

Vesta swallowed hard. She couldn't swim, of course – why would she? - but time was of the essence, lest the Wardens move on and leave her behind. "What about a..." She furrowed her brow, trying to remember the pictures from history class. "A boat? Can we find a boat?"

"A boat?" Latitia sucked on her teeth in thought. "I dunno. Aren't they really big? I've only seen the one picture, at the Shaperate."

"They can be any size," Vesta said. She was feeling better now that she had something to do, and she stood awkwardly, balancing herself with her sword. "Come on. We passed a dome on the way here."

She led her new friend to a short, squat building with a steel dome for a roof and pointed it out to her. "See? Those come off if you twist them, so they can be cleaned and redecorated. That's another thing not to tell, by the way. Smith caste would have nuglets if they knew I'd given it away. Not that it matters anymore."

Latitia slung her pack off her shoulders and tucked her map safely inside, then circled the building, squinting at the eaves. She settled on a tight spot between the wall and another building's buttress, wedged herself in between the two slabs of stone, and pressure-walked her way up. There she twisted and grabbed hold of the roof, grunting as she pulled herself up. Vesta watched, impressed. She hadn't been that limber since she'd grown hips at age twelve.

"It's not budging," the girl muttered.

"Turn it the other way."

"I think it's rusted. Give me your sword, I'll try prying it."

"You want to use a dwarf-forged sword as a _prybar_?" Vesta was horrified.

"You want to die in the river?"

Well, when she put it that way... Vesta mutely unbuckled the sword from her waist and heaved it up, still sheathed to keep from accidentally skewering the girl. After some grunting and scraping sounds, she heard the deeper-toned ringing of the dome rotating on its threads, and then it popped free.

"This thing is sodding _light_," Latitia said with surprise as she lifted one side up. "I can just pick it right up, I – shit!"

Her fingers slipped off the unwieldy thing, caked in dust as it was, and the two of them watched in frozen horror as it slid ponderously off the roof. The clang as it hit the stone floor was loud enough to startle a flock of bats out of their roosts in a nearby tower, fluttering and squeaking in confusion. Latitia's horrified face peered down at her from the denuded rooftop for a moment, and then they both heard the sound of pattering lizard feet.

Latitia dropped from the roof, hanging by her hands for an instant to stop her fall. She grabbed her pack and began dragging the dome toward the river as fast as she could. Vesta shuffled after her, panting. They made it to the water as the forerunners of the deepstalker pack emerged from the shadows, speeding along on their muscular hind legs, hideous wormlike mouths agape as they scented their prey.

The dome floated well and immediately began to move with the current. Latitia hung onto its edge and braced herself, looking back over her shoulder with fear-filled eyes as Vesta caught up to her and began to struggle to climb into the bobbing 'boat.' Then she was out of time. Latitia let go the boat to draw her daggers as the first deepstalker leaped at her back.

Vesta cried out in pain and fell forward into the boat as it rocked underneath her, and the deepstalker squeaked its unimpressive death cry as Latitia's dagger found its heart. She ripped it off Vesta's back and hurled its twitching body at the other deepstalkers, who growled and skittered out of the way, spitting fury. Then she turned and ran after Vesta and the boat, which was being buoyed away downriver.

It was like scene from a nightmare, the water dragging at her legs so she was running in slow-motion while being pursued by beasts. In fact, Latitia thought wryly, she'd had almost this exact dream a couple weeks ago, except with spiders. And no boat.

A deepstalker leaped onto a rock and launched itself across the water, its legs coiling and releasing with incredible power for such a small creature. Its wicked claws stretched out toward her and she flinched, slipped, and fell into the deepening water. The river closed over her head, shockingly cold and sucking at her heavy leathers, and then the creature splashed into the water over her head, kicking its legs as it began to swim.

The sharp claws raked past her face and she grabbed the creature's ankles and pulled, thinking of nothing but getting to the surface. Of course, she just pulled the nug-sized animal underwater _with_ her instead. It panicked, thrashing and kicking, and seized her arm with its hand-like forepaws, claws piercing the leather bracer and drawing blood. Then her boots touched bottom and she kicked off, rocketing up to the surface with her arms full of struggling deepstalker.

She gripped it tightly, crushing it against her chest to keep it from using its deadly hind talons, and looked around frantically. They were far from the shore and the other deepstalkers were watching, disappointed, as the current carried her and her burden out of their reach. She thrust the deepstalker away with all her strength and beat at the water to put distance between them, and as she'd hoped, the disheartened creature began to swim for shore, whimpering in distress.

"Latitia!"

She paddled clumsily around to look for Vesta and saw her scooping at the water with her shield like an oar. Latitia swam inexpertly toward the boat, feeling her limbs growing heavy in the cold water.

"This thing steers like a bronco in heat," Vesta growled, her face white with pain as she fought the current.

Latitia said nothing, her jaw clenched with cold. She grabbed hold of the boat and tried to pull herself up, but numb fingers slipped off and she had to scramble after the boat as it bobbed away. She tried again, both hands this time, and Vesta yelped and threw herself to the opposite side of the boat as it almost tipped over. Her weight balanced it again and Latitia tried to pull herself in, but her waterlogged clothing weighed her down and the river leached the strength from her body.

"I can't," she choked out. "I can't do it."

A helpless silence fell after her words. The river flowed into a narrower passage and sped up, and they were shooting through the caves, lyrium runes flashing past and illuminating delicate stalactite chandeliers. The pale eyes of spiders observed them from the ceiling. It was beautiful.

"Don't you dare let go," Vesta said then. She used her commander voice, as though she could _order_ Latitia not to die. If only that worked.

"I d-don't intend to." Pause. "I m-might not have a ch-choice, though."

Vesta growled low in her throat and slammed her fist against the side of the boat in impotent fury. "Damn this wound. I have no strength at all. I could try to..." She trailed off, unable to think of anything. "I'm sorry I involved you in my problems," she said instead, and meant it.

"S'okay."

Vesta's eyes fixed on the gloved fingers that clung to the boat's edge, all she could see of the other woman, fearing every moment that she would see those fingers slip off and another good dwarf would have died in her service. When she'd chosen a military career, she'd imagined she would seize the glory of Aeducan, save Orzammar just as her ancestor had done. She and Bhelen talked for hours about it, about how wonderful it would be when he, too, was commissioned. House Aeducan, the Shield of Orzammar. Surely no darkspawn could stand against them.

Then she'd gone on her first mission as independent Commander, and men had died. If she closed her eyes, the accusing stares of the dead still haunted her. _We trusted you to lead us_, they seemed to say, _and you led us to our deaths._

She'd still been reeling from it, the realization that being Commander meant those deaths were _hers_, when she'd come upon Trian's broken body in the caves. Her first thought was that she'd made some sort of mistake, that somehow _she'd_ gotten her brother killed – she should have been faster, should have reached him sooner, protected him from whatever had killed him. She had little affection for her domineering older brother, but that didn't matter. He was her brother, and he didn't deserve to die in the dark.

Latitia's fingers slipped an inch, then caught.

"That's it," Vesta snarled. "Nobody else is dying on my watch." She knelt, wobbling in the unbalanced boat, and unbuckled her belt. She pulled it free and leaned over to wrap it around Latitia's wrists.

"You'll t-tip over," she protested weakly as the boat lurched and water slopped over the edge.

"No, I won't," she snapped, and leaned back on the belt. Pain seared along her side and her eyes watered, but she didn't let go. She'd get her out of that water if it killed her...

"Stop! It's okay!" Latitia cried.

"I'm fine-"

"No, seriously, let me stay in the water. It's warm! Look!"

Vesta shook her head, trying to clear her pain-fogged vision, and saw the red glow of the lava vent running alongside the river. Sulfur-scented steam spiraled up from the water closest to the vent

"It's heated, we must be almost there," Latitia said. She sounded more alert already.

"Oh." Vesta's hands went lax on the belt and she leaned back, breathing in shallow gasps.

"Actually, it's kind of hot," Latitia admitted, wincing. She kicked her feet, pushing the little boat to the far side of the river. Her toes tingled and stung as feeling returned and she bit the insides of her cheeks to keep from whining. _At least that means I still have toes_. She wriggled free of the belt and dipped her hands alternately into the warm water, reveling in the sensation of warmth returning to her body.

Shortly thereafter, her boots scraped along the river bottom and it widened out for Aeducan Thaig's docks. She pushed the boat to the shore, ignoring the bone-deep weariness that the cold had left behind, and stripped out of her wet clothes to wring them out. "Where in Aeducan Thaig will these Wardens be?" she asked.

Vesta didn't move to get out. She blinked blearily; after a few deep breaths she seemed to come to herself again, saying, "They were searching a specific archive. I can show you where."

Latitia dressed again, worrying about the lack of anything to disguise her scent. Hopefully she wouldn't have much scent, since she'd just had a nice bath. "Vesta, do you know what kind of critters live here?"

Vesta smiled. "None. My squad and I cleared them out a week ago. Lost some good men doing it, though." The smile faded.

Latitia stared at her for a moment, taken aback, though she knew she shouldn't be, Vesta was obviously noble caste with an attitude like hers. And a competent warrior, too. "Well, all right then. Shall we go?"

Vesta's face went chalk-white as Latitia helped her up, and she staggered slightly before she managed to start putting one foot in front of the other. She led them at a painfully slow pace through the ruined thaig and up to a half-buried building, carved runes over its doors declaring it to be a Shaperate's archive.

It was empty. The two of them gazed at the dark room for a long moment before Latitia said brightly, "Okay, so let's go look on the road to Orzammar. Maybe they're camped not too far away."

Vesta groaned, but led her to the Deep Road that led directly to the dwarven mining city. There they found evidence of a camp, discarded wrappers and the like, but there was nobody within sight.

"Stone have mercy on us," Vesta whispered. "They're gone. We missed them."


	3. The Exile, Part 3

_Special thanks to mille libri for patient and thoughtful beta help, and to alls y'all for rocking SO HARD. Also: If you're reading my other stories, don't worry, I am not neglecting them! I just wanted to complete this short story while it is topical to "Great Escape."_

* * *

Latitia strained her eyes in the gloom, hoping in vain to see a flicker of movement that might be a Warden, but saw nothing; beside her, Vesta moaned and fell to her knees, then slumped sideways against a fallen pillar.

"Maybe we can catch up," Latitia suggested.

"You might be able to," Vesta said heavily, "but I can't. I'm done."

Latitia looked at her for a long moment, then away. Now what? _Duster, what did you get yourself into_, she wondered. Her own food and water would hold out for two more days, three if she stretched it... just long enough to watch Vesta die. "I could run to Orzammar and try to bring healing back," she offered. "I could try to bribe a physician to come back with me, maybe."

Vesta shook her head. "I don't have any money. Do you?"

"No."

Latitia sat down on the pillar and pulled out one of her hardtack biscuits. She offered it to Vesta, who again waved it away. Shrugging, she bit off a slightly too-big hunk that instantly turned her mouth to sand. Ugh, hardtack was truly the food of desperation, she thought as she took a swig of water to wash the stuff down her parched throat.

"Latitia."

"Hmm?"

"I don't want to die like... like this." Vesta turned glazed eyes up to her. "Slowly and painfully. Devoured by vermin."

Latitia stared at her. Was she really asking her to...

"Please. I'm – I'm too afraid to do it myself, and..." She swallowed and looked down at her trembling hands.

"No," Latitia snapped, jumping to her feet. "No, I will not. What's a little pain? Are you Stone or aren't you? I won't let anything eat you, I'll stay with you until... But we sure won't be sitting on our arses and waiting for death, and I sure as Stone won't hurry it up for you, you sodding coward."

Some of the fire returned to Vesta's face. "How dare you speak to me that way!"

"I'll speak however I like to whining, spineless gangue," Latitia snarled with deliberate contempt. "When you're ready to be Vesta again, _then_ I'll give you some respect."

Vesta's lip curled and she turned her face away. "What, is that supposed to create strength where there is none? Can you not be merciful instead of clever?"

_Damn, I was sure that would work_. "I am being merciful. I'm saving Vesta the warrior from Vesta the defeatist. I'm going to make a dash after them, see if they're still close. You rest. I'll be back in an hour."

Vesta didn't reply, just slid a little lower against the pillar and closed her eyes.

Latitia slunk off down the tunnel the direction the Wardens had gone. Walking on the actual Deep Roads themselves was always a little scary, because the lava flow kept them lit with a sourceless, ambient light that left few shadows deep enough to hide a dwarf. At the same time, though, most animals avoided them for the same reason, either because their cave-adapted eyes disliked the light or because they, too, were creatures of stealth.

But she ran out of time with no sign of any Wardens. She stood with her hands on her hips for a moment, lips pursed, before turning to head back to Vesta. She'd never much liked the idea of going to the Wardens, anyway, because she couldn't imagine they would be of much help. Wardens only came down here to die, everyone knew the surfacers didn't care about the darkspawn that plagued the dwarves.

"Vesta," she panted when she returned, causing the older woman's eyes to flutter open. "I didn't catch the Wardens, but I did see tooth marks on some of the pillars. Maybe we can find you a bronto to ride. Are they hard to tame?"

"It takes weeks," Vesta muttered. She reached for the canteen and fumbled the cap off, then drank deeply of the contents. Latitia watched with some concern for the preservation of their supply, but she knew from experience that bleeding makes a person thirsty. She could try to refill from a river or spring, but the last thing they needed was for both of them to be down with lyrium poisoning – or, Stone forbid, darkspawn sickness from tainted water.

"Let me change your bandage," she said instead, kneeling beside Vesta.

She unbuckled the breastplate and cast it aside, deciding the extra weight wasn't worth the protection it provided, since Vesta was past the point of fighting anything other than her own mortality. Underneath, the bandages were soaked through. She'd expected that, though she'd hoped she would be wrong. Sighing, she cut the bandage off, wadded it up and tossed it into the lava before applying a fresh one, using up the last of her supply.

"How's that feel?" she asked when she was done.

"It feels like arse." Vesta's face was ashen and beaded with sweat after enduring Latitia's ministrations. "More to the point, I think we can agree that my only hope is finding help on the surface. The question is how to get there, now that Orzammar's Great Gate is closed to me. I think I have an idea."

"Oh?" Latitia perked up and sat back on her heels to listen.

"The ventilation system," Vesta explained. "It has surface vents, huge ones. I know, I know," she said to Latitia's dubious expression, "the Shaperate _insists_ we do not rely upon the surface for anything, that our Stone provides everything we need, and probably that could be true now that our numbers are so few. But before the darkspawn came, we grew so numerous, and devoured so much of the lichen, the smiths saw the suffering of the weak and elderly and realized we were destroying the air the Stone had given us. They built vents to replace it, to repair the damage."

Latitia nodded. It seemed like the sort of thing people would do, to use a good thing until it's all used up. Thank the ancestors for the smiths. "Okay, so do you know where they are?"

Vesta's shoulders slumped. "No. But," she added hopefully, "there's likely to be one near Orzammar, right? To supply the big city?"

Latitia nodded again and dug around in her pack for her map. She spread it out on the ground and lay on her belly, propped up on her elbows, to ponder the little arrows she'd drawn on most of the tunnels near the city. Sometimes, knowing the direction of the airflow so she could stay downwind of predators was a matter of survival. "Okay," she said eventually, pointing to an intersection somewhat south of their current location, "look, they sort of converge here."

"Where did you get that map?" Vesta frowned, wincing as she tried to bend over and look. "It doesn't match the one in the Shaperate."

"Yeah," Latitia laughed shortly. "That's because it's accurate. The Shaperate map is sort of a, a poem about the _idea_ of a map." Her eyes softened slightly. "I got it from Kardol."

"Who?"

"It's not important." She started folding the map up again, her fingers gentle and precise on the worn parchment. "Let's go."

She grasped Vesta's arms and heaved her up onto her feet, where she swayed until Latitia handed her her sword to lean on. Then they set off down the tunnel, thankfully in the same direction as the Wardens; stealth was no longer a viable option, with Vesta shuffling along in her heavy boots.

More than once, they had to make their way around fallen beams and pillars; the carved stone that was so impressive when upright was a mighty pain in the arse when it lay across the road. And what would have been an easy scramble for Latitia became an arduous and exhausting task as she struggled to get Vesta over without hurting her too badly. The trip took miserably long, but the map indicated they should be getting close...

"What's that? Is it the vent?" Latitia asked, peering at a massive grate partway up the wall, twice the height of a man and composed of angled metal slats. Its top end was secured by a thick chain that ran down the wall to a ring set into a heavy block of stone.

"Your guess is as good as mine," Vesta said. She shrugged, then winced when it hurt.

"Looks like something else has been using it." Latitia pointed at a place where some of the bars had been bent outward, leaving a hole.

She eyed the chain, but the lava flow made it as inaccessible as the palace treasury. Instead, she dropped her pack on the ground and untied a coil of rope from its side, then poked around on the ground until she found a fist-sized rock, a fragment of a broken paving stone. This she tied to the end of the rope, and began swinging the weighted end in a circle until she let it fly up into the grate. Latitia was as surprised as anyone when the rock flew neatly through the grate and wrapped itself snug around a bar.

"How rusty do you think the lock is on that grate is?" she asked.

"I don't know." Vesta started to shrug again, then thought better of it. "Probably quite rusty indeed. Moisture probably gets in through the hole. Why do you ask?"

Latitia answered by wrapping the rope around both wrists and throwing her weight against it. The rope snapped taut and rust showered down from the grate. She paused to give her hands a break, then tried again, harder. The grate groaned, and so did she, stopping to shake the blood back into her hands.

"Latitia, look," Vesta interrupted her. "There's a hinge on the bottom. See? Try pulling it down instead of out, maybe it will swing open."

She did, and the grate tore open with a screech. Its chain jerked into motion, creaking like an old man's knees, and the stone to which it was attached rose ponderously into the air as a counterweight. The top of the grate clanged onto the paving stones at their feet, forming a neat, stair-like bridge across the lava and up the wall. They gazed at it for a moment, impressed by the smiths' forethought in making the vent accessible for maintenance, and then Latitia coiled up her rope again and clambered up into the blackness above.

Vesta watched her go, then eyed the 'stairs.' "Well, here goes nothing," she muttered, and stepped up the first stair. Then the second. The third. Pause for breath. Fourth stair, and she was over the lava now, the hot air blowing past her and making her tunic flare out like a bellows.

"Careful, careful," Latitia hissed from above. She threw down the rope, a loop tied into its end. "You're heavier than me. Put that rope around your shoulders. I haven't gone to all this effort just to watch you fall into the lava."

Vesta started to make a dry comment, when the grate gave a rather alarming moan of tortured metal, and she hurriedly slipped the loop over her shoulders. Latitia pulled a little on her end, too, and between the two of them she managed the climb, collapsing with relief onto the cool stones of the air duct.

Below them, an excited squeaking sound made them both freeze in fear.

Latitia leaned quickly over the grate, and saw the deepstalker scout scurry away on long, slim legs, his racy body built for speed. "Aw, sod them all," she spat. "More of those sodding deepstalkers. We've been making too much noise."

"I don't blame them for being persistent," Vesta said, beginning to get her breath back. "Look at me. I'm sodding delicious. I'm not even wearing armor – no crunchy shell to bother with."

"Can we close this thing?" Latitia asked. She ran her hands over the rusted metal, eyed the chain and the counterweight.

"Um," Vesta tried to lean over and look but ended up flopping onto her side with a grunt. Her torso had grown so very stiff. "Oof. Uh, yes, probably, but... You'd have to be on the outside, and give it a good shove to get the counterweight moving."

Latitia squinted up at the counterweight block. It wasn't so far out of reach. She took a few steps back, then ran and jumped, caught hold of the block and swung herself onto it. It rocked under her – _Heh, the stone rocked,_ she thought with her usual misplaced humor – and began to sink, grinding against the wall. She crouched on it as it dropped, then leaped easily back to the air duct before the stone dropped too low. The grate slowed as it extended straight out, and they held their breaths for a moment before, achingly slowly, it picked up speed again and finally banged into the wall with a deafening slam.

While Latitia and Vesta were still massaging their ears, the deepstalker pack rounded the corner and skidded to a halt. They glared up at their lost prey with their horrible little faces and literally stamped their feet with frustration and disappointment. The biggest one turned and spat at the scout, who cowered and hung his head apologetically.

Latitia burst out laughing "Now that's entertainment," she said, grinning at the foiled deepstalkers. "Good thing they don't climb like spiders, eh?"

"Good thing," Vesta huffed softly, trying not to laugh because she could feel the bleeding worsen when she did. A trickle along her flank told her she'd soaked through the bandage again without needing to look. She lay on her back, listening to the deepstalkers skitter back and forth below them. There was a squeak, a hiss of fire, and a burst of laughter from Latitia as one tried to jump and fell into the lava instead.

After a few more moments of self-congratulation, Latitia heaved a sigh and turned reluctantly toward the pitch blackness of the air duct. She pulled out her _tepish_ chunk for light, holding it gently in her gloved hand just far enough behind her that she didn't ruin her night vision by seeing its glow directly, and began to creep forward through the tunnel.

"Time to see where this goes. Stay well behind me in case we encounter any creepy-crawlies," she said over her shoulder.

"I'm just going to stay here for a while, if that's fine by you," Vesta said without sitting up. "I guess I'm as safe here as anywhere."

"True enough." Latitia left her and padded silently forward.

Vesta watched her aide disappear. Even without the darkness to hide her, Latitia had a way of making herself seem insignificant and easy to overlook, almost as good as being invisible. Vesta tried to distract herself from the hissing predators below by wondering whether she could learn Latitia's trick, or whether a warrior-commander like her would always seem dangerous.

Even Bhelen had thought she was a threat.

How could he? How _could_ he have done it? And turned the Assembly against her, too! How was it _possible_? He had an allowance, which he spent conspicuously on gaudy things, and which was nowhere near enough to bribe more than one or two deshyrs. She supposed he could have made promises of favor once he had the throne, but Harrowmont was supposed to be helping her – he should have told the deshyrs she would match any bribe Bhelen promised.

Her body went cold. Yes, Harrowmont had promised to help her, but... She had only his word on that, and it was easy to make promises to a condemned prisoner. Gorim was warrior caste and not allowed into the Assembly, so he would not have been able to warn her if Harrowmont had betrayed her, too. Paragons protect her, if Harrowmont, the King's most trusted advisor, had thrown his support behind Bhelen, the two of them might have been enough to sway the vote even without bribes. She really _was_ alone.

Far above, Latitia stopped for a swig of water and then kept on climbing. The tunnel felt awful, hewn straight and square out of practicality rather than love of the Stone, and she tried not to pay attention to the feeling of wrongness.

The duct's floor was smooth and flat but angled sharply upward. It was set with ridges to make it easier to climb, and she was glad, because a thin stream of water flowed irregularly down it and left a twisting streak of slippery algae. Air blew past her, but not as much as she'd expected, and it smelled dank. The fans must have stopped working, or maybe the vent itself was clogged up with... something. A cave-in, maybe? Mud?

Something glinted on the floor in front of her and she froze, holding her breath.

The corpse lay on its back, eight legs curled above it, sunken and dry. The body was twice the size of her head, the pincers as big as her hand. Smaller than the corrupted ones in the deep tunnels, but still plenty big. Several long seconds passed before she was able to force herself to breathe again. _It's dead. It's definitely dead. But... There might be more._

With a glance up to the vent's roof, she turned and jogged back down the tunnel. A spider could easily crawl past her over the roof if they smelled Vesta's blood, and she wouldn't be able to do anything about it. She needed to keep Vesta with her. If they were careful, if they stayed clear of the webs, the spiders might ignore them; they were lazy things, and shunned prey that looked like it might fight back.

None of those flimsy excuses were what sent her back, though. The reality was that there was no way Latitia could make her feet take one more step down that tunnel alone. Vesta might be a liability in a fight, but she was a warm-blooded fellow dwarf and by the ancestors, Latitia hated spiders.

"Vesta, I need-" she started to say when she came back into the welcoming lava light, but stopped when she saw the look on Vesta's face. "Did something happen?"

Vesta tried to answer, but only managed a whimper. Hot shame filled her as she felt her face crumple, and she rolled onto her side away from the other woman, trying to hide. She had never cried in public, not since she was a toddler with a skinned knee. But she'd never been exiled before, either; never been betrayed by her family, never wandered the Deep Roads alone, never borne a mortal wound, never owed her life to a casteless. This was a time of firsts, after all.

Then, to her shock, she felt a hand on her shoulder, another under her cheek, and Latitia lifted her head a little and slid a leg underneath it, settling Vesta's head on her lap. Calloused fingers smoothed back the hair that had escaped from her braids, and Vesta let her tears fall.


	4. The Exile, Part 4

Latitia would have liked to let Vesta cry as long as she needed to, but she couldn't stop looking around and behind them, checking the shadows. When Vesta's shaking lessened to trembling and she forced herself to take a few steady breaths, Latitia said softly, "I'm sorry, but... I need to bring you with me. I think the vent does go to the surface, but the reason I think that is because I found a dead spider. I think they must set their nets near the opening, and catch stuff that wanders in."

"Spiders," Vesta said flatly.

"Yeah. Spiders."

"Fine." Vesta levered herself upright, grimacing and flushed with embarrassment. "I hear spiders bite you from behind, inject a poison that makes you sleep. There are worse ways to die."

Latitia shuddered, imagining jaws piercing back of her neck, poison shooting through her veins. "I did not need to hear that."

She slung Vesta's arm around her shoulders and helped her to her feet, and they started off. There were a few awkward moments until the two of them managed to coordinate their steps, and then the only barrier was the slope of the tunnel itself.

It leveled out every hundred yards or so – Latitia wondered idly whether that was so, if an engineer slipped and started rolling down the slope, he didn't just keep going until he shot out the end and into the lava – and at first they were perfect for stopping to rest. But Vesta was tiring with worrying ease, and soon Latitia's calves and knees burned with the effort of keeping them both from sliding backwards whenever Vesta stopped and hung on her shoulder, breathing in short, labored gasps.

"Oh," Vesta said after one of these breaks. "That's a big spider."

They were back to the dead one she'd seen. It felt like it had taken years to travel that short distance. The desiccated body was lying on one of those level spots, and Latitia crouched and let Vesta down to the ground to rest. She knelt beside the body and prodded it tentatively; it rocked a little on its domed back and she flinched away from it, then laughed nervously at herself. Its chitinous armor was covered in fine hairs, sharp like wire, and its pincers gleamed.

"Come on," Latitia said, and reached for Vesta's arm.

She shook her head. "Why are you doing this?"

"We need to get you to the surface!"

"Why? It'll just be a cold, barren mountain, I'm sure of it. Nothing but sky over my head, nothing but primitive humans to help me – if I'm lucky. More than likely there won't be anyone." Vesta dropped her eyes to the dark stain down her side and her trouser leg.

Latitia didn't know what to say. She wasn't sure why she was so determined to reach the surface, especially not know that Vesta had pointed out the futility of it. She just...

"So am I supposed to just _sit_ here?" she demanded.

Vesta shrugged miserably, just a tired motion with one hand. "I don't know. I'm sorry. I'm just _so tired_." She pressed her eyes shut tight, but a tear squeezed out anyway and ran down her cheek. "I just want to sleep."

"You can sleep when we're out," Latitia said. "Someplace clean and safe and, if we can manage it, beautiful. Not here, in a dead tunnel beside a spider corpse."

Vesta nodded and allowed herself to be helped to her feet. Latitia pulled Vesta's right arm over her shoulder and gripped her hand when she started to slip off, wrapping her other arm around Vesta's waist, and again she asked herself what in sod-all she was doing.

Climbing the rest of that tunnel was possibly the hardest thing she'd ever done. Ancient cobwebs drifted ghostlike past their faces, making her sneeze and shudder at their clinging touch. Shadows cast by curtains of dust and clumps of debris seemed to move with sinister intent, and every moment she expected silent death to descend upon them from above... but it seemed that either the spiders were gone, or the ancestors had chosen to show favor to a brand and an exile.

Increasing debris, dead leaves and lichen began to clog the tunnel as the air grew more humid and cool. She had to stop to wrap Vesta's other arm around her shoulders and bend forward to take her weight across her back and hips; that was the only way she could move the bigger woman, one shaky step at a time. For a while, Vesta whimpered every time Latitia stumbled or shifted her grip. Then she stopped complaining, and that was worse. Vesta's blood was chill on her back.

And _then, _right about when Latitia was starting to think she had made an awful mistake, she blinked her tired eyes and realized that there was light, actual light, strangely white and glinting down from above. She took an eager step forward, and her foot caught in sticky thread of fresh silk stretched across the tunnel floor, thick as a rope.

Dread filled her body, numbing her limbs and fogging her brain, making her freeze like a trapped animal waiting for death. Slowly, gracefully, shapes that had been mere lumps of dust or hanging moss on the ceiling moved and unfolded; first one, then two, then a half-dozen alien faces turned toward her, each bearing four glittering emerald eyes and a set of shining pincers, precise and sharp as syringes.

For the moment, they merely stared at her, deciding whether she was worth the effort. Vesta was dead weight on her back. She couldn't hope to fight them, here in their nest. Maybe she could just throw herself headfirst down the tunnel and slide to the bottom on her sodding face, it'd be better than waiting for one of these monstrous insects to get around to killing her...

* * *

When Sketch found the cave, his arms were already full of herbs, tubers and the delightful gleanings of a field of wild strawberries. He might not have noticed it, except his passage startled a young rabbit. It leaped away into a hanging curtain of ferns and tree roots; instinctively, he reached out with his magic and found the creature's warmth, its furred body hot with the beating of its heart as it tried to flee.

He felt a pang of pity for the animal, the soft-heartedness that made him attempt to be vegetarian every few years. But, as ever, his need overwhelmed his emotion and he clenched a fist, violently sucking the body heat out of the rabbit and trying not to think about soft brown eyes and a twitching nose. Elven apostates don't get to decide what to eat any more than they decide where to live; whenever he grew comfortable enough to think about things like ethical food choices, some Templar would sense the thinning of the Veil around him, or some human peasants would decide they were sick of elves, and he would have to move on.

His longest-lasting relationship had been with the Bards, who saw the usefulness of a free mage, especially a spirit healer with enough power to defend himself with fire and ice. All that had gone wrong two years ago, when Marjorlaine changed sides in the middle of a job in Ferelden and threw him, Leliana, and their dwarven muscle Tug into a particularly nasty dungeon. _Poor old Tug_. The burley fighter had grinned and called out out taunts, determined to keep the torturers away from Sketch as long as he could. Sketch still had nightmares about the sounds the hideous tools had made, and rescue had come too late for him to do anything to save his friend. No amount of power can bring a man back from the dead.

After that he'd gone west with the vague intention of crossing the Frostbacks and eventually making his way back to Orlais, feeling stupid and sentimental for carrying Tug's axe with him. But he was tired of running, and when he'd stumbled across the abandoned trapper's cabin in an idyllic hidden valley he'd dropped his bags and given up on the world.

He'd been there long enough to get the hang of living in the mountains. Long enough to turn the ramshackle cabin into a home. Long enough to get lonely.

Sketch laid down his basket and pushed through the ferns to retrieve his dinner, and with a startled "_Whoa_!" almost fell face-first down the stone slope that opened up before him. Only some quick thinking saved him from an undignified and possibly fatal tumble as he froze the mud at his feet solid, causing it to grip his boots tightly for long enough that he could catch his balance. Several seconds later, his own _whoa_ floated back to him as an echo from somewhere impossibly deep in the earth.

There was only one possible explanation for a smooth, flawlessly engineered tunnel into a mountain. And if this really was one of the fabled lost entrances to the Deep Roads, then that might mean...

"Lyrium," he whispered. What he could do with a little lyrium. The last winter had nearly killed him – with lyrium, he could warm himself for days if necessary, if he was lost in a blizzard or had to travel down to the shepherds' village for supplies. Sketch left the tunnel behind, picked up his basket, and started walking back to his cabin. Everyone knew there were darkspawn in the Deep Roads, and he needed to be careful.

He returned the following morning with his old fighting robes on and a generous supply of water and rabbit jerky. He conjured a magelight and, leaning on his staff for balance, carefully made his way down the musty tunnel. His eyes were on the ground, searching for footprints, alert for any evidence of darkspawn, and the fangs in the back of his neck were a total surprise. Fire burst from his hands even as shadows crowded into his vision, and he heard an insectile scream before the numbing venom reached his brain and he knew no more.

…

A vague impression of softness and warmth filtered slowly into his consciousness, and for a while he thought he was lying in a luxurious bed cocooned in blankets, and sighed with contentment. Then his nose started to itch and he tried to move a hand to scratch it, and he couldn't, because he wasn't cocooned in blankets, he was just _cocooned_, and then the panic took him.

Only for a moment, though, before he managed to bring himself back under control. A mage can't afford to panic for long or he might, for example, set his clothes on fire. Or explode.

Fully awake now, he sensed a familiar presence nearby: his spirit of healing. He could see the last of the shimmering green glow of the lifeward it had placed on him as the glyph slowly faded. A cool, gentle hand seemed to stroke his soul, and then the presence began to drift away. Sketch closed his eyes (not that it made any difference in the darkness) and said a prayer of thanks to his spirit. He thought he could feel its amusement at his gratitude; the spirits often had strange senses of humor, if they had any at all, and his spirit's was stranger than most.

Okay. First things first. He was completely and totally immobilized, unable even to move his fingers, and that was a serious problem because all his useful spells needed gestures to form. He could breath, more or less. A lingering light-headedness and dull pain in his neck made him suspect the spiders had already had their first meal of his blood, and then wrapped up the leftovers for tomorrow's lunch. It would have been nice if the spirit had stuck around a _little_ longer, but he had strength enough for some magic and he was _awake_, which was a significant improvement.

He tried warming the air around his body, thinking perhaps the silk would dry and shrink away, but if anything it grew tighter and soon he had to dismiss the heat before he cooked himself. Panic threatened again as the silk constricted his breathing, and unformed magic sparked dangerously around his hands before he clamped down on it – if he lit this silk on fire, he might burn his face off. He began carefully, carefully growing a sharp ice crystal up from the damp floor, gritting his teeth with the effort of maintaining it...

The crystal dissolved with a splash when he was distracted by the scuff of a boot on stone. Was someone coming? By the Maker, what were the _odds_? His thought was confirmed as whoever it was shuffled with painful slowness down the corridor. He couldn't tell how far away they were, with the silk muffling his ears; with a cold wash of fear, he realized they must be walking right into the spiders' trap.

No sooner had the thought occurred to him than he felt a faint tug at the silk and heard the newcomer's sudden sharp intake of breath. They'd stepped on the silken alarm cord. He waited in dread for a scream, but when the moment passed in silence, he realized the spiders must be sleepy and slow after their meal, like a snake – spiders didn't eat much, did they? A whole elf, that was a Satinalia feast to such creatures.

Urgently, he called out from within his fuzzy prison, "Cut me loose! If you want to live, cut me free, I need my hands-"

A thud as something heavy was dropped, and a blade sliced through the silk, his robes, and drew blood from the skin beneath in the stranger's desperation. Another swipe, vertical this time, and with a heave Sketch burst his hands free of the sticky mass, fingers glowing white-hot and ready even as spiders scuttled down the tunnel walls, chittering with anger.

"Get down!" he shouted, and then he couldn't hold back the magic any longer, all the pain and fear and frustration roaring out through his hands into a furious column of flame. Wind whipped at his hair as the fire devoured the air in the tunnel, it hurt to breath, and spiders were roasting and popping like chestnuts and then it was over and he slumped weakly to the floor, gasping for breath.

For a minute the only sounds were Sketch's ragged breathing and the quiet sizzle of spiders. But he knew the feeling of mana drain, having been in so many scuffles over the course of his long career of staying alive, and he wasn't worried. Soon enough he felt the magic seeping into him again, his body soaking it up from the Fade like a sponge, and he sat up and looked for his savior.

A skinny and rather scorched young woman lay huddled over an unmoving body, shaking and coughing. Suddenly worried that he might have hurt her or, Maker forbid, _killed_ the one who lay so still, he asked, "Are you all right? You can get up now, the spiders are dead. I didn't hurt you, did I?"

She flinched at the sound of his voice, then sat up, looking around at the blackened walls and burnt threads of silk. "Oh," she said, "Well, I guess that's that, then."

"What's wrong with your friend?" Sketch asked. He could have found out himself, but he didn't want to spend the energy in case he needed it for healing.

"Sword in the gut."

"That'll do it."

"Yeah, it will." She bent over the woman on the ground and touched her face, then put a finger to her throat for a pulse. She must have found one, because she sat back and looked at him for the first time. "I don't suppose you have any, I don't know, bandages or anything?" she said hopelessly.

"If you give me another minute to rest, I'll see what I can do," he said with an encouraging smile. She looked so tired, even more worn-out than him, and it was a little late to pretend he wasn't a mage. He held out a hand. "Hi, I'm Sketch. I'm a spirit healer. Promise not to tell anyone?"

She frowned at his hand as though unsure what to do with it, and the roundness of her face and her slightly odd proportions, a little broader in the shoulder than a normal woman her size, finally told him what he really should have guessed. He grinned and crossed his arms over his chest instead, giving her a short bow like Tug had once demonstrated.

She returned the gesture, keeping a wary eye on him. "I don't see why I would, seeing as you saved our lives. I'm Latitia, and my quiet friend here is Vesta. What were you doing in that... bag?"

He shuddered. "I thought I'd see if I could find some lyrium. I was so busy looking for darkspawn, I didn't notice the spider. It wrapped me up for safekeeping, I suppose. What brought you up here, if I may ask?"

She laughed nervously. "Economical spiders, great. I, uh, don't want to rush you, but there's a bit too much dying going on over here. We came to the surface to look for help."

Sketch smiled at her again. "You found it. I'm happy to help – remember which of us has been hanging out in a cocoon. I'm the one who owes _you_."

He pulled himself away from the rest of the sticky silk, grimacing at the way it clung to his hair and clothing. When he was free of it, he knelt beside the downed woman and took out the pair of small, sharp shears he normally kept for snipping herbs, then began cutting through the soaked bandages. They came away stiff and sticky with clotting blood and he tossed them aside for later incineration. Underneath, the ragged wound had been rather badly stitched together in what he recognized as emergency field dressing, the sort his old mercenary friends had called "gum and wire" for reasons he did not care to investigate. His hands moved automatically over the stitches, removing them one at a time, while he sang softly under his breath to call back the healing spirit.

It didn't come, and he ignored the suggestive voices of the demons who offered their aid instead – _all you need is power, and I can give you power aplenty_ – instead mustering his own fire to burn away the vicious infection and stop the bleeding. A touch of ice made short work of the fever. He took a break from his spellwork, breathing hard, and reached out to brush the hair back from her face, meaning to check her eyes to see if she was nearer to consciousness.

Now, Sketch normally had no trouble being professional when working on a woman's body. There were wounds, and they needed fixing, and he didn't waste energy fussing over whether the body was male or female, acquaintance or close friend. But Vesta was beautiful in a way he'd never seen. None of the fragility typical of elven and human beauty, but all of the allure, with an underlying strength that defied her wounds. Unbidden, he remembered Tug's reminiscing about the women of Orzammar with "curves like a mountain range and hips you can hang onto if ya know what I'm talking about, eh, mage?"

Blushing, he turned quickly back to the wound and spread his hands over it, putting everything he had into calling the spirit once more. He poured strength into the song and felt it pierce the Veil, felt the spirit's coolness settle into his bones and its will gently push him aside. He watched from above and slightly to the left as the spirit's healing gushed from his hands and flesh knitted under his fingertips. Color returned to Vesta's skin as the spirit multiplied the blood in her body. When the wound was just a slight pink scar, Sketch focused his own will and knocked on the door of his own mind, telling the spirit it was time for it to go. There was the usual stomach-knotting fear as the spirit pretended not to hear him, teasing him that perhaps this time it had grown comfortable in his body and might keep it, and then it was gone and he slammed back into his own head with a sickening lurch.

"Are you all right? What happened?" Latitia asked, sitting up from where she'd fallen into a doze when she saw him sway and put a hand to the wall to steady himself.

"I'm fine. She will be, too, if cared for." He began scrambling out of his outer layer of robes as soon as he had his breath back. He wrapped the heavy fabric around Vesta's still-unconscious form, warmth being the main concern now that her wound was dealt with, propping her up against his shoulder to get the cloth underneath her. She felt soft and good under his arm, and when he was done, he found he didn't want to lay her back down again.

"Do we need to warm her? I can help," Latitia offered, and scooted across the tunnel floor to lean against Vesta's other side, putting her arms around the unconscious woman's waist.

"Right, yes," he said faintly. "Body heat is best. Good thinking."

"What now?" Latitia asked after a moment's silence. "You said she needs care."

"Oh – yes. Nothing too complicated. Rest, food, warmth. She will be tired for quite some time, I'm afraid. Her body has no strength left in reserve. How long was she carrying that wound?"

Latitia paused in thought. "A day?"

Sketch whistled through his teeth. "Impressive."

"Yeah." Another pause. "Sketch, I... Do you live around here?"

He nodded. "Not too far. I have a cabin. I was tired of getting chased out of my homes, and thought hiding in the mountains by myself might be safer." He saw her confusion and explained, "I'm in hiding. It's either this or imprisonment in a Tower."

"Vesta's in exile, too," Latitia said, sitting up slightly. "She can't go back to Orzammar. She was framed for murder," she added defensively, as though daring him to accuse her friend of some guilt.

His heart leaped. Doing his best to sound casual, he said, "Well, I suppose you both could stay with me until she is strong enough to travel."

"_I_ can't," Latitia said, sounding shocked. "I can't go on the surface, I'd never be allowed back into the city. I have a home, family in Orzammar."

"You can leave her with me," he assured her. "She'll be safe with me. I want to repay you, and anyway, a good healer doesn't like to leave a job unfinished. I don't mind caring for her while she recovers." _I really don't mind. Really, really don't mind one bit._ Quite aside from Vesta herself, he saw here an opportunity to repay Tug in some way. And she was an outcast, too; maybe they could be outcasts together.

"I..." She looked a little dubious, but at that moment Vesta moaned softly and her eyes flickered open. Latitia gave a cry of relief and said, grinning, "Hey! Welcome back! You will not believe what just happened. I'll give you a hint: Flaming spiders."

"Wha?" Vesta mumbled hoarsely. Sketch tensed as she looked over to see what she was leaning on, then slowly turned her head up to blink at him. "Who...?"

"This is Sketch," Latitia explained with enthusiasm that made him want to blush and shuffle his feet even though he was sitting down. "We wandered into a spider nest, and he was trapped, and I let him out and he filled the entire tunnel with fire and burned the spiders all up! And _then_ he made your wound go away just by waving his hands at it! I've never seen anything like it!"

"Oh, good," Vesta said, a bit overwhelmed.

"How do you feel?"

"Weak. And hungry."

"Hunger is a good sign," Sketch said. "Unfortunately, food will have to wait until we get back to my house. The spiders pretty well befouled everything in my pack."

Vesta looked to Latitia, who grinned uncertainly, saying, "Sketch has a house near here. He says it's isolated and safe, and he offered to let you stay with him while you recover in return for my letting him out of the spiders' trap. Is that... okay with you?"

Vesta nodded, closing her eyes again, and Sketch let out a breath he hadn't known he was holding.

* * *

Latitia watched the healer try to pretend he wasn't thrilled at the chance to nurse a beautiful woman back to health. She'd seen what some men do to an incapacitated woman, things she wished she could forget, but Sketch had been so incredibly helpful. She wanted to believe that he was what he seemed to be: kind enough to heal Vesta, powerful enough to protect her, and lonely enough to care for her and maybe help her build a new home on the surface. There was an appealing boyishness to his soft brown hair and serious eyes, which suggested that, had life been kinder, he might have become a scholar.

"I think we should go," Sketch said then. "This isn't the most comfortable place for rehabilitation."

"Yeah, and I have to get going if I want to get to Orzammar before I drop dead of thirst." Latitia pushed herself to her feet. She watched Sketch tuck the blanket more snugly around Vesta, then heave her up into his arms with a grunt. "You got her? She's not too heavy?"

Sketch gave her a quick grin. "I'll be fine. I can stop and rest when I need to."

Vesta squirmed a little at the movement and opened her eyes again. "Are we going? Latitia, you aren't coming?"

"No," she said softly, giving the other woman's hand a squeeze. "I have to go home. _Atrast tunsha_, Vesta." She felt strangely reluctant to let her go, after everything she had done to get her here.

"_Atrast tunsha_. And thank you." Vesta smiled at her, a radiant smile that Latitia had never seen, free from pain.

"Farewell," Sketch said, turning to go. "Have a safe journey home!"

Latitia watched them go until the little light wisp was gone, then retrieved her own light with a sigh. Time to go home. Without her harvest of crabs, too, damn those greedy darkspawn. Then the light glinted on a curved pincer, and she grinned and knelt beside the body, pulling out her knife. Wasn't spider venom valuable? If nothing else, she was sure she could sell it to the Carta as a simple poison.

"Thanks to you, there'll be food on the table tonight after all," she told the spider, which didn't reply. When she had drained the last venom sac into her water bottle (which should probably be replaced after this) she stood and strode purposefully back down the tunnel, heading home.

* * *

_The end of "The Exile," the first adventure in the deep roads. More to come later, when I'm ready for a break from my other stories._

_Thank you so much for reading, favoriting, and especially reviewing! You make my day :) Special thanks as always to my unfailing beta, mille libri!_


	5. The Legionnaire, Part 1

_Seven years before the beginning of Great Escape._

The aging bronto's steps slowed as she lumbered by a patch of damp rock. She reached out her long, bristled tongue and dragged it along the surface of the rock, slurping up the thin film of moss with evident enjoyment. Kardol slapped the bronto prod lightly against her flank from his seat on the supply wagon.

"Keep going, old girl."

She turned her ponderous head around to gaze at her driver with liquid eyes. Her reproach was heartfelt but ineffective.

"Don't give me that look. I'm hungry, too. We're both late for supper. Maybe try walking faster."

The words were meaningless to her, but his firm tone made his point. She sighed mournfully and picked up the pace, casting a longing glance over her humped shoulder at the remaining moss. About an hour later, the two of them reached the edge of the patrolled territory surrounding Orzammar and met up with the rest of his century. They were there to guard the wagon and its supplies along the perilous way to the Legion camp. At the moment, though, they were still encamped and waiting eagerly for the fresh rations.

His centurion came forward and Kardol jumped down from the wagon to bang his right fist against his breastplate in salute. "Centurion Brendig."

"Logisticar Kardol. Report," came the hollow-sounding voice within the grim Legion of the Dead helmet.

Kardol shrugged and turned to the wagon, beginning to untie the canvas cover. The formal greeting was over and he didn't bother to school his words into a proper report. "Same old. Got good money for the ore, which was lucky, since the clothier practically gouged my eye out as payment."

"Cloth prices up?"

"Seems so."

"Get everything on the list?" his centurion asked idly.

"Course I did."

"You're good at your job."

Kardol snorted. He hated the title of Logisticar, had left Orzammar to get away from its cruel games and had no desire to revisit them on a regular basis, but he now found himself the only member of his new legion both willing and able to re-enter the city and trade for supplies. It wasn't a full legion, of course, but was only two hundred or so strong, its four centuries perpetually at half-strength. Legionnaires died and new untrained men filtered in to replace them, a constant ebb and flow that rendered traditional legion discipline impossible. With the Stone's favor, he thought, some other poor slob would soon join up who hadn't committed any felonies and with whom the merchants would be willing to trade. Warmed by that thought, he untied the last knot, flipped the back of the canvas cover open, and froze.

He'd picked up a passenger. Two of the biggest eyes he'd ever seen flashed from a child's bruised face, framed by hair that had been roughly chopped off, ugly and uneven. The painfully thin child crouched between two stacks of crates, freshly skinned knees and elbows showing through ragged holes in threadbare clothes. A knife was pointed at him, and though the hand that held it shook with fear, another look at the eyes warned him that the blade wouldn't hesitate if he came too close.

"Something wrong?" Centurion Brendig asked curiously, sidling closer to see into the wagon.

Kardol opened his mouth, then stopped. A soft pile of dull brown hair caught his eye, and with a start, he realized the passenger had hacked her own hair off right there in the wagon, probably with that very knife while they had been rumbling along... and, moreover, she was a girl. A girl who hadn't eaten properly in a long time, who'd been roughed up by someone, and who had taken refuge in his wagon. A girl who didn't want to _look_ like a girl. Kardol had some guesses as to how someone might end up in such a state, and bitter anger burned in his stomach.

"Nothing," he snapped and jerked the loose canvas down off its frame. It fell with a puff of dust and shrouded the wagon's contents. "Sod," he muttered.

Brendig grinned, his teeth glinting inside his helmet. "Don't know your own strength? Legion training will do that. Or maybe you're just hungry and in a hurry to eat."

"That must be it." Kardol reached under the canvas and pulled out the closest crate. He always liked to load the perishables last, so they would be the first to be unloaded and eaten, and now he was glad because it meant he could distract his comrades with dinner without having to grope around blindly under the canvas and beg the question of why he didn't just remove the cloth.

Brendig gave an appreciative rumble and took the crate from him. "I'll just give this to the cookie. Call some of the lads over to help you unpack once you've seen to the bronto."

"Yessir." Kardol watched him leave, then tried to look casual as he went back to the front of the wagon and began rummaging through his duffel bag.

He found his spare gambeson, the thick quilted jacket meant to go under his armor and offer padding protection from the metal plates, and pulled it out of the bag. It smelled like sweat and rust, as they always did no matter how frequently they were washed, but it was warm, and its bulk hid the shape of the body beneath. Next he pulled the felt cap out of the inside of his helmet and took the two pieces of clothing back to the wagon's rear.

Kardol flipped the canvas back and thrust the hat and jacket at the girl. She huddled against a sack of potato flour, the knife held uncertainly in one hand. He noticed that the scrapes were fresh and still a little wet, but the marks on her face were older and beginning to fade. The brand on her cheek stood out luridly against the greenish-yellow bruises. Her eyes flicked past at the empty Road behind him, and she asked suspiciously, "Who are you?"

"With the Legion of the Dead." He held out the clothes. "Here. Put these on."

The girl stared at them as though she'd never seen clothes before.

"Now. The hat, too. Unless you want the entire legion to know you're a girl."

She snatched the clothing and struggled into it, jamming the hat on her head. It slid down low over her brow. Kardol thought she looked adorable. Keeping his voice gruff so she wouldn't notice, he asked,"Ready?"

Her knuckles whitened around the handle of her knife. "I don't know. Ready for what?"

Kardol smiled at her, then turned and jumped out of the wagon. "Look here, boys, I seem to have brought home a stray nuglet."

"What? Another runaway?" a nearby legionnaire scoffed. "Tell the kid to go home while he can. The Legion of the Dead isn't for babies."

"He can go home tomorrow. He's half starved. Tonight he's getting a good meal and some sleep," Kardol said firmly. He caught his centurion's eye over the heads of the men, and was relieved when his commanding officer shrugged indifferently.

Turning back to the wagon, he held out his hand and encouraged, "Come on. Let's get you some food. _And fix your hair,_" he added in a whisper.

She flushed, touching the side of her head self-consciously, then clambered out of the wagon on her own. She was in the awkward knees-and-elbows phase of her growth and her trousers showed an inch and a half of bony ankle above her filthy sandals. Her hand went into a pocket still holding her knife and stayed there, fingers still wrapped around the hilt. She trailed along at a distance as Kardol unhitched and led the bronto around the camp to its pen.

He took a brick of compressed lichen out of a crate and handed it to the girl. "I have to unload the wagon. You stay here and keep out of the way. Fluff up this lichen and spread it out in the bronto's water trough to rehydrate. She makes a mess, you move it out of her pen with that shovel there so she doesn't lie in it." He lowered his voice slightly. "No one will bother you if you're making yourself useful."

She nodded, took the lichen and began to pick at it with her fingernails under the bronto's unwavering attention. Her posture relaxed the tiniest bit, clearly more comfortable now that she believed the price of her dinner was merely a bit of manual labor. Life had already taught her that nothing was free; the question had been whether the price would be something she would be willing to pay.

Kardol dragooned a cohort of men into helping him unload the wagon, finishing the task in record time, then ruthlessly bullied his way into the front of the meal line. He filled a tray with two bowls of stewed nug in mushroom gravy and a double helping of potato dumplings. Upon returning to the bronto pen with his burden, he caught the girl in the act of caressing the animal's soft pink nose, the creature's eyes drooping as it fell asleep. The girl noticed his approach and jerked her hand back in embarrassment, causing the bronto to open its eyes and nudge at her for more petting, almost knocking her off her feet.

He sat on the ground with his back to the warmth emanating from the thin stream of lava that ran along the edge of the Road. The girl lowered herself to the ground carefully, ending up with her legs folded under her, as though it hurt to sit on the hard stone. Kardol watched the food disappear down the girl's gullet and decided to pretend he had already eaten. He could eat later. "Go ahead, both bowls are for you," he told her when she finished licking the first bowl clean and began eying the second.

"That's really good," she said finally, pushing the last dumpling around the plate with a spoon before finally admitting that she was too full to eat it and instead stuffing it into a pocket for later. "I like the gravy."

"Me, too. Sometimes we can find the mushrooms growing wild, but when we're close in to the city like this it's easier just to buy the farmed ones. Same goes for the nug." He grinned suddenly. "Especially the nug."

She glanced up at him, meetings his eyes briefly before looking away again. "Why? I thought nugs were everywhere."

"Near the city, where it's safe, yeah," he said. "Further out? They're almost extinct. We're not the only predators out there. Helpless, edible things don't live long out here."

He hadn't meant to sound so ominous, but the thought had been weighing on his mind, and now it was out there. The girl's eyes flashed and she snapped, "I'm not helpless."

"Course not," he said dryly. "You're just young, untrained, unarmored, underfed, and armed with nothing but a knife, and everyone else is merely bigger and stronger than you."

To his horror, her lip trembled and she lowered her head, hunching her shoulders, seeming almost to collapse in on herself in quiet misery. "I know," she whispered.

Cursing himself for being such a blunt jerk, he said softly, "I'm sorry. I'm not good at... I haven't had much practice talking to kids. Don't know how to be gentle, I guess."

She shrugged.

"You tired? You want to go to sleep?"

Another shrug. He began to fear he had killed the infant trust he had begun to earn.

He began to collect the dishes and put them back on the tray. "Come on. You can borrow my beard scissors and neaten up your hair inside my tent."

"I'm not going in your tent!" she almost shouted at him, her face reddening as she jumped to her feet. "I'd rather sleep with the bronto! What do you care, anyway? It's my sodding hair!"

"What? No, no, I wasn't – I'm not – You can have the whole tent. Okay?" He held up his hands in surrender, appalled that she would think him capable of trying to seduce a girl who was barely approaching puberty. "I'll even leave you my sword. I'm not gonna touch you, I swear by the ancestors."

As for her other question, he hadn't a clue. From a practical standpoint, it made sense that she would better pass for a boy if her hair looked like its current shortness was normal and not a recent change. But that really wasn't any of his business. And anyway, it wasn't the whole reason. He found he wanted to see her clean, neat, and comfortably dressed. Well cared-for.

Smiling.

_Brinna would have turned four next month._

"Anyway," he went on, shaking his head to clear it, "you're right. Your hair is none of my business. Sleep wherever you want. Tomorrow I'll take you back to Orzammar."

She hesitated, uncertain, while he picked up the dinner tray and turned to walk away. Before he'd gone two steps, she blurted, "I don't want to go back." She bit her lip and lowered her head again. He realized it was a habit left over from when she'd had long hair; she was trying to hide her face.

"But you have to. Don't you have family? They'll miss you." He couldn't keep her here, that was for sure. The Legion was no place for a little girl.

"Yeah," she admitted. "M-my sister... probably worried already."

"Then you have to go to her. It's not right to abandon your family." He had almost said 'House' but stopped himself just in time, remembering her brand.

"You abandoned yours," she said sullenly.

His back stiffened at the accusation. His attempt to keep the anger from his tone failed. "They stopped being my family when they refused to protect my daughter. I owe that nest of selfish deepstalkers _nothing_."

"Yeah?" She turned her face up to him and gestured at the bruises. "And obviously mine is doing a bang-up job protecting _me_."

They stared at each other for a long, long moment. Kardol blinked, and for an instant he saw someone else standing in front of him. A woman, glowing with love for him and for the baby girl in her arms. A woman and her child who had died in the gutters of Dust Town because his House had refused to shelter his casteless female child. Murdered for the coins in her pocket, coins he had given to her. He did not want to send another girl-child into that cesspit to die.

"Then I will teach you to protect yourself," he said.


End file.
